Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Afew days and a great deal of effort later, with invitations sent and the preparations in place for a grand dinner well underway—Aurelia had informed Cook to spare no expense—she set out for the village.
As she was a duchess now, she did not walk; it was not considered appropriate for a lady of her station to walk the three miles to the local village, Jane had provided helpfully.
As was becoming customary of her only real ally in Ravenhall.
The carriage ride took very little time, and she arrived at Swanstone, a small village perched on the cliff above the roiling sea.
To one side stood a large, imposing lighthouse, and the moment Aurelia dismounted, she found her gaze drawn to it.
The structure had evidently been recently built, and she had never seen one so large.
The rounded walls were constructed from gray brick, and there were windows at the very top to allow ships to sight the enormous lamp warning them away from the rocks.
The village itself was larger than she had hoped, and she spent some time walking about the streets with Jane half a step behind her, exploring their surroundings.
There was a market filled with fish and vegetables, the scent of raw fish almost overpowering.
Stalls selling fresh bread shouted their wares at her.
Nothing about Swanstone was as intimidating as London markets, which were rife with pickpockets, yet the noise stirred the same restless edge beneath her skin.
Cook would be handling all the purchasing of food from the local markets and butchers, so Aurelia passed through the market to the other shops, glass-fronted windows glittering and reflecting the light.
Whispers followed her. She glanced behind a few times but didn’t quite understand why.
Until the door before her face slammed shut.
A few people stared at her from across the street, their faces a mixture of disdain and pity. When she smiled at them, they turned their backs.
Sudden embarrassment flooded her. Did they think she was unworthy of being the duchess?
She moved on to the next shop—a haberdashery—but a man inside hurried to lock the door. Stomach squirming, Aurelia rapped on the glass.
“Hullo?” she called. “Are you not open? You were a few moments ago.”
The man stepped back, markedly embarrassed at having been caught in the act. “I—uh...” He cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we’ve just closed.”
“At this time? Why has everywhere else also closed?” she asked in exasperation. “Is it because I am the Duchess of Ravenhall?”
In the way the man’s face slackened, that had been entirely the reason. The only question was why. “Good day, Your Grace,” he said, backing away still further.
With a sigh, Aurelia turned and came face to face with a plump lady, a basket in her hands and her lips pinched tight. “Excuse the people of this village, ma’am,” she crowed. “You must be new here.”
“I am,” Aurelia replied, voice steady. “I’m the Duchess of Ravenhall.”
“We know who you are. All of us.” She nodded at her compatriots across the street and at all the other shut-up houses. “Here’s a tip, dear, if you wish to stay unnoticed, don’t show up in the duke’s coach with his bloody crest gleaming in the sun. No one will miss that, and news travels fast here.”
Aurelia furrowed her brows. “Why are you telling me this? Why is the duke so unpopular?”
The woman’s face twisted into a frown. “You don’t know, do you?”
“If I had known, perhaps I would not have ventured into the village like this,” Aurelia said, exasperated. “Now, will you please tell me what is going on?”
“We don’t associate with those connected to murderers!” someone snapped from across the street. Aurelia turned, but a sharp look from the plump woman silenced the heckler before she could catch sight.
“Go back to your manor, dear. Best stay there,” the woman said, eyes softening just enough. “And good luck with your marriage, Your Grace.”
With that, she left, her duty evidently done.
Aurelia froze where she was in shock, her thoughts reeling.
“Murderers?” she whispered to Jane, who appeared just as perplexed. “Why are they talking about murderers? Who has murdered someone?”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Jane replied quietly. “It’s a mystery. But if they’re not friendly, best do as that lady said and return to the manor.”
“What about my dinner tomorrow?”
Jane frowned, chewing on her lip. “I’m not so sure, Your Grace.”
Sebastian scowled. “And just when did she do this?”
“Erm… last evening, Your Grace,” Fellows answered. “Her maid ostensibly helped orchestrate it.”
Foolish chit. If she had merely consulted him, he would have quite simply informed her it was a hopeless endeavor. No one would dare attend a dinner held in Ravenhall Manor. The rumors were too strong, and the people in this part of the country were led more by superstition than reason.
Not that superstition changed facts.
He paced quickly around the room, trying to outrun said facts. “And you tell me she has gone to the village now?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“With only her maid for protection?”
“Correct, Your Grace.”
He raked a hand through his hair. Ought he go after her to ensure she was all right?
The silly girl had brought this upon herself, albeit unknowingly.
He had never told her not to visit Swanstone; he had never supposed he would need to.
A coy miss, he was told. Unused to the prospect of being a grand lady, content to remain in the house and never venture too far.
Evidently, Mr. Arnold had misled him about that. She might have arrived with no polish, no pedigree—but she had every intention of acting the duchess regardless. With or without his say.
Presumptuous little actress.
If it were not so infuriating, he might have even been a dash impressed.
Before he could debate any further on the virtues of going to the village to bring her home himself, the door slammed shut, and his whirlwind of a wife swept into the foyer. Fixing his most blank expression on his face, he went to meet her.
She stood in the hallway, tugging at her gloves ineffectually, her face flushed with anger, or perhaps embarrassment. When she saw him, her eyes flared.
“Here,” he said coolly, pinching the end of her gloves. “Allow me.” One hand curled around her wrist, he gently tugged at her gloves, removing them and placing them in a footman’s waiting hand.
“You could have told me,” she snapped fiercely.
“Told you what, precisely?”
“That no one in the village would receive me!”
“I might have done so had you consulted me before you left. Instead, I suppose you decided it was unnecessary to seek permission when bedecking my halls for a grand dinner.” He still had hold of her wrist, but he dropped it now.
“Well, that is your prerogative, I suppose, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. ”
“Warn me of what?” she demanded.
“We are not popular around here.” He studied her face, then stated, “Cancel the dinner.”
“Cancel it? Why?”
Must he spell it out for her? “Because it isn’t a good idea.”
“So you won’t be attending?”
“Good God, woman! I ask you to cancel it, and you ask me if I plan to attend?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, searching for the resolve to continue this conversation.
If she would not listen to reason, then why did he have to strain himself for her benefit?
“I’ve said all I intend to on the matter.
What you do is entirely up to you. I wash my hands of it. ” He turned to leave.
She hurried after him. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving.” He glanced back at her. “But I’ll be sure to send a formal notice next time.”
“To go where?”
“The lighthouse,” he replied curtly. “Do not follow.”
“But—” She chewed on her lip, “…Tell me who the murderer is.”
Murderer.
Sebastian felt the blood drain from his face, and instead of answering, he strode for the door with the same measured footsteps as before. It took everything in him not to break into a run.
So the people of the village had spoken to her, after all.
And they had called him a murderer. To her face.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, that was how the world saw him. A murderer. Not a man. Not a duke. Just a stain that lingered by the shores of this seaside village, never to be washed clean.
It was why he’d chosen a wife with no name, no standing—to keep the rot from spreading any further.
Even so, his stomach twisted so violently, he felt as though he might purge his contents on the gravel of the courtyard. He strode past it, ignoring Aurelia’s shouts behind him until he drowned them out entirely.
He would never be free of this chain around his neck. This guilt that ran so deep inside him, it had melded with his very flesh, his very bones. This was to be the remainder of his life. And even a new wife, even his duty, could not erase his past.
No matter how much he ran.